


at home in your arms

by championstunic



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: BokuAka Week, Caretaking, Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, Fluff, M/M, Mandatory Mentions of Food and Food Preparation, Sick Character, at this point i've written more fics that involve food than ones that don't
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-07
Updated: 2020-08-07
Packaged: 2021-03-04 23:09:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,377
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25414453
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/championstunic/pseuds/championstunic
Summary: Keiji blinks at him, his illness-fogged mind finally taking in a clearer picture of Koutarou standing in his sun-soaked kitchen, a dish towel draped over his shoulder as he chops up green onion andumeboshiin order to make a meal for Keiji. He looks magnificent, in all his domestic glory, and he’s practically refracting the light that’s streaming through the window and washing over him, casting rainbows in all directions across Keiji’s small, single-bedroom apartment. His lips are still curved up in a slight smile, but even in Keiji’s haze he notices the intensity in his eyes; an expression Keiji thought was reserved solely for the volleyball court.Or: Koutarou takes care of a sick Keiji, whether Keiji wants him to or not.
Relationships: Akaashi Keiji/Bokuto Koutarou
Comments: 15
Kudos: 69
Collections: Bokuaka Week 2020





	at home in your arms

**Author's Note:**

> hello! happy bokuaka week :D this was written for day 7, specifically the sick days/illnesses/recovery prompt
> 
> for context: this takes place some point around the second big time skip (so about 2018/2019), after they've both started their careers. they've only recently reconnected after graduating high school and have basically just gotten together :) enjoy !!

When Keiji finally manages to wrap his winter fleece blanket around his shoulders like a cape, slip his feet into his slippers, and shuffle towards the door to answer whoever is banging on it, he’s surprised to see Koutarou on the other side. Particularly considering he had made it explicitly clear that, under no circumstances, did he want Koutarou to come over to take care of him. It’s not that Keiji cares about Koutarou seeing him when he's sick; it’s that he doesn’t want Koutarou to see him when he’s so vulnerable. Especially so early in their relationship, when they’ve just reconnected and Keiji is still struggling to remember how it feels to have a force as fierce as Koutarou around all the time. And he definitely doesn’t want to feel babied, or like he needs tending to.

Yet, Koutarou stands there in Keiji’s doorway, his usual, blinding grin stretching across his face and his arms full of grocery bags, unknowingly stumbling all over Keiji’s careful efforts to make himself seem more put-together than he often feels. He knows he should’ve expected as much; even in high school, Koutarou was never one to tread lightly in sensitive moments like this. Instead, he preferred to charge forward, peeling away Keiji’s defensive layers and replacing them with his own shell of comforting acceptance. So, even if he weren’t so drained of energy by sickness, Keiji knows there would be no use in arguing with Koutarou.

Still, he croaks out, “What are you doing here?”

Koutarou pushes past him into the apartment without invitation, taking off his shoes as he answers. “A little birdie told me that you’re sick! I’m here to make you feel better.”

“Was it the same little birdie that told you _not_ to come here? Or is there someone spying on me that I should know about?” Keiji asks, shutting the door behind him and following Koutarou into the kitchen, where he immediately begins unpacking the groceries he’s brought with him.

Without looking up, Koutarou replies, “Hm, yeah, I vaguely remember him saying something like that but I didn’t feel like listening. The birdie was probably delirious. Because he’s sick, too.”

“What a coincidence,” Keiji says, dryly, but he decides not to press the matter further. He’s starting to feel lightheaded, so he sits down on a stool at the kitchen counter. Slowly, he takes off his glasses, folds them up, and puts them down in front of him. Then, taking a shaky breath, he leans down to rest his entire cheek on the countertop, the tile cool against his feverish skin. He closes his eyes, and he can still hear the muted sounds of Koutarou moving around the kitchen behind him, throwing food into the refrigerator and pulling things out of drawers. 

Koutarou, ignoring Keiji’s last comment, suddenly pauses his rummaging around the kitchen to ask, “Where do you keep your knives again?”

Keiji opens his eyes and sighs, defeated. When he responds, his voice comes out slightly muffled. “The drawer next to the sink.” For just a moment, he stares straight ahead at the dark screen of the TV in the living room that opens up directly from the kitchen, his left eye half-shut from still being pressed against the counter, before opening his mouth again. “Don’t you have practice today? And a match coming up?”

Without missing a beat, Koutarou replies, “Don’t you have work?”

Finally, Keiji drags his face up off the counter. His head feels heavier than usual, and he wonders if it always weighed this much.

He looks over at Koutarou where he stands on the other side of the counter. He’s just started chopping green onions, and when he notices that Keiji’s moved, he pauses to look up at him and give him another smile. Keiji feels something loosen in his chest and he thinks maybe he’s feeling better already.

“I’m sick,” Keiji says frankly.

“Exactly,” Koutarou replies, pointing at Keiji with the knife in his hand, a bit too carelessly for Keiji’s taste. “You’re sick, so you’re not at work.” He goes back to cutting the onions into thin rings, as if that was the end-all, be-all answer to Keiji's questions, and he was silly for still being confused.

“Okay… But _you_ still have work.”

The chopping stops again, and Keiji is met with the full force of Koutaoru’s golden eyes, bright and focused, but blurred by Keiji's vision.

“No, you’re sick. So I’m here.”

Keiji blinks at him, his illness-fogged mind finally taking in a clearer picture of Koutarou standing in his sun-soaked kitchen, a dish towel draped over his shoulder as he chops up green onion and _umeboshi_ in order to make a meal for Keiji. He looks magnificent, in all his domestic glory, and he’s practically refracting the light that’s streaming through the window and washing over him, casting rainbows in all directions across Keiji’s small, single-bedroom apartment. His lips are still curved up in a slight smile, but even in Keiji’s haze he notices the intensity in his eyes; an expression Keiji thought was reserved solely for the volleyball court. 

Keiji stares at him like this for probably too long, slowly processing the sternness that had been in his boyfriend's voice. After years of knowing him, Keiji realizes there’s nothing he can do to sway Koutarou from staying put and taking care of him, because Koutarou always gives each task his all. It just so happens that the task he’s set his mind on today is nursing Keiji back to health. Despite Keiji’s apprehension, he can’t help but feel reassured by Koutarou’s determination, and his overwhelming presence.

Next, Keiji shifts his gaze to the now-empty grocery bags littered around the counter, the remaining debris giving him hints as to what they once contained. He’s able to recognize broken-down cardboard boxes that used to carry 500 millilitre bottles of Pocari, packages of bone broth that have already been emptied into a large stock pot on the stove (a gift from Keiji’s mother, although he’s never used it before), and multiple boxes of cold and flu medicine, for both day and nighttime. Keiji frowns.

“Why did you have to buy so many groceries?” he changes the subject, propping his elbow up on the counter and resting his cheek in his open palm. His head definitely wasn’t this heavy before he got sick.

Koutarou’s eyes return to the green onion, and he finishes cutting the last of them as he responds. “Because I knew you had a deadline coming up, which usually means you don’t have your kitchen stocked with anything other than those instant yakisoba cups that I keep telling you not to buy and the super sweetened cans of coffee from the vending machine downstairs! I figured I needed to get you _real_ food, and fluids that won’t increase your heart rate.”

Keiji opens his mouth to reply, a bit confused as to when and how Koutarou was able to notice his unhealthy eating habits. Keiji’s even surprised to find that the fact that Koutarou noticed something like that about him doesn’t even bother him that much. But, before he can get a word out, he doubles over in his stool, hacking out a dry, heaving cough into the crook of his elbow. Koutarou drops everything on the cutting board and rushes over, resting a comforting hand on Keiji’s back and rubbing slow circles between his shoulder blades as he recovers from his coughing fit.

“It’s okay, let it out,” Koutarou mutters softly. Keiji finds comfort in the way Koutarou’s voice can range from raucous one moment and soothing the next, when he needs it most.

As soon as Keiji regains his composure, Koutarou strides across the kitchen to yank open the small pantry and pulls out a blue bottle before traipsing back. He shoves the room temperature Pocari into Keiji’s hands, then returns to the cutting board.

“Drink it, you need to stay hydrated! And I’ll make you some tea later.”

“Okay,” Keiji manages through his dry throat, and complies. He chugs half of the bottle in one motion, suddenly realizing how dehydrated he’d been before. Meanwhile, Koutarou continues floating around the kitchen as if it’s his own, washing a cup of rice and dumping it into the stock pot along with the broth.

Keiji finishes draining most of the bottle, recaps it, and places it on the counter next to his smudged glasses as Koutarou reappears next to him. Without a word, he places the back of his hand on Keiji’s forehead, then slides it down to feel his cheek. Keiji looks up at him as he does this, his dry, chapped lips slightly agape as he watches the careful movements. Although his vision is slightly out of focus, he can see Koutarou’s eyebrows knitted together in deep thought and his golden eyes looking intently back into Keiji’s. Keiji smiles to himself and wishes he could kiss the concentration away, but he knows better.

When Koutarou comes to a conclusion, he cups Keiji’s cheek in one of his hands and Keiji can’t help but lean into the touch. “You’re really warm,” he tells him, resolutely. “I’m going to take your temperature.”

As soon as Keiji’s foggy mind realizes that Koutarou has disappeared into the bathroom, he’s already back with a thermometer in hand. Without protest, Keiji opens his mouth for Koutarou to place it under his tongue, maintaining eye contact the entire time. Koutarou gives him a reassuring smile, and, as they wait for the thermometer to beep, he laces their fingers together, smoothing his thumb over Keiji's knuckles.

Finally, it beeps, and Koutarou takes the thermometer out of Keiji’s mouth to read it. “I knew it. You have a fever, Keiji,” he says with a frown. “38.6. At least it’s not bad enough to go to the hospital.”

“Yay,” Keiji deadpans.

“I can’t believe you’re sick and you still have the energy to be snarky,” Koutarou replies with a pout, poking Keiji in the shoulder. He doesn't apply enough pressure for it to hurt. 

Then, before Keiji knows what’s happening, Koutarou scoops him up in his professional athlete arms and carries him towards the bedroom.

“What are you doing?” Keiji asks, head reeling again, and he can feel an illness-induced headache coming on. He wraps one arm around Koutarou’s neck and uses his other hand to clutch his blanket closer so it doesn’t drag on the floor.

“Knowing you, you probably haven’t been getting enough sleep lately because of your deadline. That’s also probably why you’re sick. So, you’re gonna take a nap!”

Again, Koutarou has noticed these little things about Keiji and, again, Keiji surprisingly doesn’t mind. He admits, too, that upon being cradled in Koutarou’s arms, a thick sheet of fatigue — caused by a mix of countless late nights working and his sudden onset sickness — has fallen over him. He could _really_ use a nap.

Koutarou places him gently on the unmade bed and delicately grazes his lips over Keiji’s temple in a quick kiss before walking away to draw the thin, cheap curtains closed over the window, partially blocking out the rays streaming in. Keiji thinks Koutarou looks almost like an angel, standing there in front of the curtains, with the faded sunlight forming a halo of yellow and orange around the blurry silhouette of his body. He looks like the star Keiji always knew he was, burning brilliant and bright right in front of Keiji’s tired, weary eyes.

Keiji’s distracted by another wheezing cough, although it’s not as severe as his previous fit and he recovers quickly. He makes himself comfortable, wiggling further under the covers and, half-asleep already, he whispers, “Goodnight, Koutarou.

Koutarou, having made his way to the doorway, looks back at Keiji, laughter in his eyes and his expression soft and fond. “Sleep well, Keiji.”

Keiji curls up, letting the fatigue completely engulf him now, and drifts off with visions of Koutarou on repeat in his cloudy mind.

\---

When Keiji wakes up, it takes him a few seconds to regain his bearings. His headache has subsided and he feels slightly less fatigued, although his throat is still dry and scratchy, his chest feels as if it’s stuffed with tissues, and sitting up in bed dizzies him. He digs the heels of his hands into his eyes, rubbing away the sleep, before looking around the room. The curtains are still drawn, but the sun’s set, so the only light filtering through them now is from the street lights outside and it bathes the far section of his room in a pale shade of orange. The rest of the room has been plunged into darkness while he slept, and without his glasses Keiji can’t make out any of the finer details of the furniture and dirty clothes that he knows are strewn around. He can hear muffled laughter on the television outside the closed door, which indicates that, unless a home intruder broke in to use his TV, Koutarou unexpectedly showing up at his apartment was not a fever dream after all.

Suddenly warm, Keiji kicks the duvet away and climbs out of bed slowly, so as not to worsen his nausea. He slips his feet into his slippers and pads over to the door, cracking it open and squinting at the influx of light from the living room.

“Keiji!” Koutarou calls from the couch, when he sees him emerge. “I was just about to wake you. The _okayu_ is almost done.”

“How long did I sleep?” Keiji mutters, his mouth dry and throat sore from both sleep and sickness. 

He shuffles over to the couch and falls back on it, leaning over to rest his entire weight against Koutarou’s side. Instinctively, Koutarou wraps his arm around Keiji’s shoulders and pulls him closer. There’s a variety show playing on the TV and Koutarou immediately mutes the volume. Keiji can see an idol group he doesn’t recognize noiselessly reacting to a joke made by the host.

Koutarou thinks for a moment. “Maybe two hours? But don’t worry, the okayu is still fresh! I didn’t start to boil it until, like, half an hour ago. Do you feel better?”

“A little bit,” Keiji answers truthfully into Koutarou’s chest. “Still sick, though.”

Koutarou hums, absentmindedly stroking Keiji’s shoulder with his thumb. Suddenly, he stands up, causing Keiji to fall completely onto the couch where Koutarou had been sitting, the seat still warm. He stares down at him from above, grinning. “Well, I’ll pour you some _okayu_ and then you’ll feel _even_ better! How does that sound?”

Keiji finds himself smiling up at Koutarou in spite of himself. “That sounds good, Koutarou.”

Koutarou practically skips back into the kitchen as Keiji carefully peels himself off of the worn leather cushions, following in his wake without even bothering to pick up his feet as he walks. He reclaims his stool at the counter and replaces his glasses on his face, bringing the brightly lit kitchen mostly into focus, although the edges of his vision remain blurred from sickness and the remaining dregs of fatigue. The almost empty bottle of Pocari is still on the counter, too, so Keiji twists the cap off and downs the remnants in one gulp.

“So,” Koutarou begins, and Keiji turns to look at him where he stands over the stove, ladling heaps of steaming rice porridge into a bowl. “Did you meet it?”

Keiji blinks at him. “Meet what?”

Without looking up, Koutarou moves to the counter across from Keiji to sprinkle the scallions and _umeboshi_ he’d chopped up earlier over Keiji’s _okayu_. “Your deadline. The one you’ve been so stressed about that you haven’t been replying to my texts and it made you sick.”

“Oh,” Keiji says, “I got an extension.”

Finally, Koutarou looks back up at him, a smile on his face brighter than the fluorescent lights in Keiji’s kitchen. Keiji makes a mental note that, after he recovers, he needs to search Koutarou to try and find a dimmer switch. 

“Good!” Koutarou exclaims. “And I’ll be here to make sure that you don’t go back to work until you’re _all_ better. It’s important to know your limits!” 

Keiji stares at him for a few more seconds, because for a moment he’d forgotten that Koutarou is perceptive enough to notice these intimate details about him. Details about how Keiji has a tendency to wear himself out with all-nighters before important deadlines and meetings. Or how, despite his best efforts, he sometimes struggles to communicate with Koutarou as much as Koutarou might want him to, and how Koutarou still likes him regardless. Or even how he gets too caught up in his work sometimes to remember to take care of himself as much as he should. 

But, that’s why Koutarou is there in his kitchen today, right? To take care of Keiji in the ways that Keiji tends to neglect. Finally, Keiji’s able to dispense with his earlier apprehension and anxiety. Now, appreciation swells in his chest, pushing aside the weight and congestion of illness and replacing it with pure, unadulterated fondness.

“Thank you, Koutarou,” Keiji breathes, the corners of his lips tugging up into a slight smile. “I’ll remember that.”

“I’d hope so,” Koutarou huffs with finality. Then, he slides the bowl of _okayu_ across the counter, a spoon quickly following it. “Now eat, please.”

Keiji just nods, saying thanks before shoving a spoonful into his mouth with the most gusto he can muster despite still feeling weak. The porridge is thick, and it's mild enough not to upset his stomach, although the _umeboshi_ sours it just barely, still providing a good flavor. It feels warm and comforting in his belly; it’s everything he’s been needing. Keiji signals his approval to Koutarou with a smile and a softening of his eyes, and Koutarou grins back in response, reaching over to gently place his hand on Keiji’s forearm, engulfing him in warmth on the outside as well as the inside.

After Keiji finishes his meal, Koutarou turns on the electric kettle to finally make the cup of tea he’d promised. It’s a blend of ginger and lemon, and it fills the entire apartment with a smell that makes it feel more like a real home. Keiji sips it slowly, trying not to burn his tongue, letting the liquid soothe his aching throat. He watches Koutarou fondly over the rim of his mug as he eagerly gulps down his own bowl of _okayu_.

Once Keiji empties his mug and Koutarou takes care of cleaning up the kitchen, the two of them find themselves back on the couch. Koutarou sits with his feet up on the coffee table, but Keiji doesn’t have the energy to scold him today so, instead, he lays down and rests his head in Koutarou’s lap, making sure to take off his glasses and place them on a side table first. One of Koutarou’s hands immediately finds Keiji’s own, lacing their fingers together, while his other hand gravitates towards Keiji’s hair. His fingers clutch at the dark, curly locks for a moment before slowly combing through them, intermittently catching at a few tangles. Keiji closes his eyes, letting the delicate caress, the background noise of the evening news, and the rise and fall of Koutarou’s stomach lull him back to sleep again.

Just before he drifts off, though, he feels Koutarou shift, pulling Keiji’s hand that’s holding his towards his face in order to brush his lips against Keiji’s knuckles. “Don’t worry, Keiji,” he hears Koutarou whisper, because he thinks Keiji is already asleep, “I’m here now, and I’m not going anywhere. I’ll still be here until you feel one-hundred-and-twenty percent better, and I’ll even be here after that.”

As he finally falls asleep, Keiji can’t help but smile a little, thinking about how, maybe, it’s not such a bad idea to let Koutarou see him at his most vulnerable. To let him know about all of the unkempt parts of his life; the side of him that gets stressed and anxious about upcoming deadlines and doesn’t know how to cook much other than cereal and instant noodles. Because Koutarou will be there for Keiji when he needs help tidying up a bit.

**Author's Note:**

> a couple days later, koutarou gets sick and keiji _tsk tsks_ at him the entire time he nurses him back to health.
> 
> thanks shan for beta-reading, love u <3 
> 
> pls leave your thoughts in the comments or come scream at me on [twitter](https://twitter.com/vethirugami) or [tumblr](https://spiritedsway.tumblr.com/) :D


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